


Don't Speak

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Series: Pride Goeth [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Porn, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent Drunkenness, F/M, Flashbacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: This is a direct follow up to Brought to Heel (https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861907).Solas and Lavellan flash back on a drunken, angry night of sex.





	Don't Speak

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic contains depictions of drunk sex with strong rape/non-con elements due to that drunkenness. Violence features heavily. If this is bothersome to you, please don't proceed. Also, if you need anything else tagged, please let me know.

Sleep fled from him the way early morning mists disperse under the heat of the sun -- a slow departure of a diffuse white haze.  The first thing that registered was that his body ached.  All of it.  Muscles in his legs and back were stiff, bunched and tight, and his shoulders were sore.  Even his face hurt, one side of his jaw possessed of an ache at pulsed through his temple to join the immense headache that pounded behind his closed eyes.  He couldn’t make sense of the collection of pains at first, but as he slowly came to realize he was not in his own bed and sensed the familiar weight of the body beside him, bits and pieces of the previous night flickered behind his eyelids.  --  Wicked Grace, a discarded tunic, fisticuffs.  Manhandling Niyera out of the tavern and to her quarters.  She pushed him, physically and figuratively.  He’d drug her down the steps.  She’d hit him.  Then they’d…

 

He cracked open an eye and immediately regretted it.  The midday light through the stained glass was darkened by the color, but even with that meager blessing, the brightness sent a pulse of nausea through him, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.  It was all he could do not to void the contents of his stomach, but he focused on breathing through the waves, and eventually they subsided to a tolerable level.  At his side, he could feel the warmth of Niyera’s body, hear the deep whisper of her breath, the tickle of her hair on his shoulder.  He wanted to look at her, survey the damage he was certain he had done, but he couldn’t bring himself to.  He justified it to himself by thinking that he didn’t want to wake her.  But, that wasn’t the whole truth.  --  He gently probed the corner of his mouth from the inside, tongue tip catching on a small tear, and he was greeted with a coppery twinge of blood.  When he pulled his hands from his eyes, he folded his arms over his chest and sighed, a deep breath that roiled the evolving sense of regret and shame lodged in his chest.  In time, he drifted back into sleep, and his troubled thoughts were momentarily silenced.

 

It was late in the afternoon when she was roused from sleep by an annoyingly repetitive noise that drug her unwillingly from her repose.  Struggling past the fog of her mind, she eventually recognized the sound as a knock on her door, and she swore to everything and nothing at the unwelcome intrusion.  The sigh she heaved caused her chest to swell and her shoulders to rise, and both hurt immeasurably.  She was genuinely startled by the pain, but couldn’t take the time to examine herself as she peeled her eyes open and pushed her legs off the bed.   _ The damned door _ .  Feet on the floor, she stood, and her knees wobbled as a pronounced ache gripped low in her body, her thighs, and pain lanced across her back as sharply as strikes from a whip.  She swore, again, and forced herself steady as she snatched her robe up from the floor and shrugged into it as she was walking to the door.  It was barely belted around her waist when she swung the door open and caught Dorian in mid-knock.  “Well, a good day to-... _ oh _ .  You look like shit,” he said, the initial sarcasm in his voice dwindling to nothing as he stared down at her.

 

Normally, she’d have answered with a sharp-witted barb in return, but her mind was like quicksand.  Every thought was sucked into the muck before she could get it out of her mouth.  The most she could manage was, “ _ Well, thank you _ ,” and that was only as he gingerly gripped her chin and tilted her face to the side.  In addition to her bloodshot eyes, her neck was peppered with ovals of red and purple, and the slight movement of her head caused the silk of her robe to slip down.  Dorian’s eyes caught the teeth marks and scrape from the wall on her shoulder, and when she saw his lips purse and his cheeks hollow with irritation, she realized and tugged it back up again.  “It’s fine,” she muttered, pulling the neck of the robe even further closed as she folded an arm over her stomach.  With a disturbingly cool and even tone in his voice, the Tevinter replied, “That is the opposite of how it appears.”  The breath she exhaled was shallow and quiet, and she wrapped her fingers around the hand that held her chin.  “Nothing happened that I didn’t invite, Dorian, or that I didn’t want,” she said as he released her chin and folded his other hand over hers.  “You’re certain of that?” he prodded, and she could only nod.  The twist of his lips told her he was unsatisfied with the answer, so she tried to reassure him, saying, “He’s still alive, so yes.  I am certain.”  His head canted to one side, and he patted her hand before saying, “Very well, then.  We’ll discuss this when you’re feeling more yourself,” and there was no question in his words; it was flatly a statement.  Being in no mood or condition to argue, she nodded and offered him a brief  _ thank you _ .  He dismissed the words with an errant wave of his hand, gave her fingers a squeeze, then departed.

 

Back in her room proper, she stood at the end of the bed and gazed down the length of it at Solas as he slept.  His hands were loosely draped over his chest, where there was a rather large and foot-shaped bruise, and his head had lolled to one side.  It offered her a glimpse of the bruised corner of his mouth and a smaller discoloration higher on his cheek that was undoubtedly from where she’d struck him.  His neck was marked, though less than hers, and his shoulders and what of his chest she could see were scored by a crosshatch of scratches and faint, fingertip-shaped bruises.  Wordlessly, she pressed a palm to her cheek, and she felt as a stranger in her own mind as she attempted to make sense of the previous night’s events.  Evidence of happenings she still didn’t clearly remember were littered across the floor:  his clothes, the remains of hers, the contents of her desktop scattered.  Even the bed sheets were barely clinging to the mattress.  When the endeavor to recall proved fruitless, she withdrew to the small room that housed the tub and pushed the door almost closed. 

She leaned a hip against the edge of the tub and reached to turn the knob to draw the water, and for a moment, she remembered the first time she’d encountered this wonder.   _ Ancient elven design _ , she’d been told.  That thought summoned another, and her own voice echoed through her mind like a peal of thunder.  She’d accused him of only caring about retrieving the orb, of not caring about her.  Firm fingers tried to massage the tension out of the creases in her brow as she shook her head as if the motion would clear the thought away.  It didn’t.  It only served to tilt the world with dizziness and cause the pounding in her head to double.  Casting a hand over the surface of the water as it drew ever higher, she willed strands of magic into its depths, heating it until steam began to roll into the air in large plumes.  Hopefully, the warmth would draw some of the tenderness from her muscles.  Standing away from the tub, she plucked her brush from the vanity in the corner, finished the unraveling of her already loose braid, and carefully tugged the snarls and knots from her hair.

 

With the brush returned to its place and the water shut off, she pulled the knot out of her robe’s belt and let the silk fall away to pool on the floor.  She found the water temperature unpleasantly hot when she dipped in the first foot, but she followed with the second as that had generally been the intention.  Bracing her hands on each side of the tub, she gingerly lowered herself into the bath.  Sharp hissing slid through her teeth as a myriad scratches and scrapes and patches of skin rubbed raw were set aflame by the water.  At the same time, knotted muscles responded instantly and began to unwind.  For a while, she just sat in the middle of the tub, knees drawn to her chest, getting acclimated to the temperature.  As the heat teased the soreness from her legs, she stretched them out and started to lean back, but the sudden bite of the raw wound on the back of her shoulder sat her bolt upright again.  Reaching over, her fingers sought the wound, and it wasn’t hard to find; the skin was ragged and scuffed up.  Withdrawing her hand, she found flecks of dried blood and new smears of fresh on her skin, and her nose scrunched up as she swished her hand through the water.  She turned onto her stomach and stretched out to drape her arms over the edge of the tub, laying so the water hit just beneath her shoulder blades and well away from the wound above.  The weariness that came with the hangover mingled with her physical exhaustion bore her head down into the cradle of her arms and pulled her eyes closed.

 

The rush of water nearby teased him from sleep, and a fumbling stretch found her side of the bed vacant.  He sighed out a tremulous breath as he draped the back of an arm over his eyes.  The last of the afternoon sun was slipping behind the mountain peaks beyond the balcony, but it wasn’t the light he was shielding himself from.  The easiest thing would be to get out of bed and go, but that seemed an exceptional act of cowardice.  He could wait until she came out.  Most likely, she would dismiss him immediately, especially if her memory of the previous night was even a fraction as detailed as his.  He could interrupt her bath.  It was unlikely that he would be welcome, and again, she’d likely ask him to go.  It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that there would be no acceptable outcome to this situation.  Only bad, worse, and worst.  He sat up carefully, and something shifted painfully in his chest.  It made him suck in a hard, deep breath, which hurt just as bad.  Glancing down, he found a massive bruise in the center of his chest, and it took him only a moment to recall that Niyera had kicked him.  Every passing moment brought another memory of the night before, and he wondered dully just how much more horrible it could possibly get.  Fingers laced, he smoothed his hands over the back of his bowed head and clutched at the back of his neck.

 

Relaxing into the warm embrace of the bath water, she turned inward to let her mind wander.  She tried not to linger too long on any one memory, but she found it difficult when they unveiled themselves from drunken forgetfulness.  --  When she’d asked him to stay, she was still angry.  No, she was  _ furious _ .  Her drunkenness and his audacity transformed every bit of her grief at losing him into rage.  White hot and ferocious, it was a fire that fed itself.  Every time she pushed, he came back, and every time he came back, her rage flared a little higher.  It was a peculiar situation:  a lover leaves and the one left is savaged by the abandonment, but at the same time, craves nothing more than to be comforted by the very source of the pain.  Throw in alcohol, jealousy, and profound sadness, and it creates the perfect storm.  The second he’d agreed to stay, she rose from the bed and went about striping him with a harsh efficiency.  He’d gotten  _ his _ , and now she intended to take  _ hers _ .  

 

A violent shove toppled him onto the bed flat on his back, and she’d sat on his legs as she roughly took his cock in hand.  He hadn’t yet had time to recover, only a few minutes before having been inside her, and he groaned and twitched under her touch.  The sensitivity had to have been painful.  But he said nothing, not even when she took him in her mouth, sucking him clean of her slick mingled with his spend.  His voice wordlessly issued a litany of complaints and pleas and even praise as she worked him with her tongue and lips until he was hard again.  He kept trying to touch her, unsatisfied with twisting his fingers in the sheets -- he wanted them in her hair.  She was in no mood to tolerate his desires, however, and she did something to him she’d never done before.  The last tug he gave to her hair was one too many, and even as her gaze shot up at him, she drove his hands back with the force of her will.  Tendrils of pressure bound his wrists and held them above his head, robbing him of any capability to control her physically.  After that, she took her time with him.  

 

She left him to languish hard as she ground her hands over the sweet dip at his hip bones, then nibbled and pinched her way up his torso until she sat on his stomach.  His voice had long since become one unending growl, low and rooted in the back of his throat.  She ignored him, utterly, and palmed his cheek to shove and hold his face to the side.  Bowing, she laved her tongue up his chest, worried a nipple with her teeth until he was panting, and then lapped at his sweat from the sharp curves of his collarbones.  When she pushed her body down the length of his, she worked herself until his cock was against the wet heat between her legs.   With his length trapped between them, she writhed against him, teasing him to the cusp of his peak before sliding off, denying him completion.  She brought him to that point  _ over _ and  _ over again _ until Elvhen words she'd never heard and didn't understand began to pour from his lips, and he began to struggle in earnest.  He was still fighting against his bonds when she took him in hand to position him and finally sank down onto his length in one swift, smooth slide.   _ Oh, the sounds he’d made _ .  The remembrance chased goosebumps along her skin, and she shivered despite the heat.  Of course, had he wanted to free himself, he could have.  He was the stronger of the two with force magic, and it would have been simple enough for him to unravel her spell.

But, he didn’t.  Instead, he fought to thrust up into her as she snapped her hips down on him in a bruising rhythm.  He implored her not to stop.  The memory of slapping him again sent a tremor up her arm, and she recalled clamping a hand down over his mouth to shut him up as she rode him, chasing nothing so much as her own satisfaction.  --  As bits and pieces of the night revealed themselves to her, she began to feel a certain disgust with herself.  Disgust at how drunk and utterly out of control she’d allowed herself to become, at the things she’d done to him, the things she’d allowed him to do to her.  It wasn’t that those things weren’t enjoyable.  It was that she’d let things get completely out of hand, lost her temper, and ended up entwined again with a man she could not keep.  With one arm still draped over the edge of the tub, she lifted the other hand and settled the heel of her palm right between her eyes.  She bore in, massaging with hard upward strokes into her brow as if she could force her pulsing headache, along with the memories, out of her head.

 

Behind the door at his back, he heard the quiet sounds of sloshing water, then nothing as he tilted his face up.  Night had set in, and only shards of moonlight fell into the room through the windows.  A lazy gesture at the fireplace set the wood in the hearth ablaze and lit the candles on the mantel.  He watched the flames dance for a while, and the only sound reaching him now was the crackling of the wood as it burned.  The thin sheet across his lap fell away when he stood, and he immediately curled an arm over his torso, right at the base of his ribs, in response to the pain he felt.  As he trudged to the end of the bed and around, he kicked his undershirt out of the way, and it landed near Niyera’s desk.  The sight of the heavy piece of furniture sitting askew brought flashes to his mind; she was shoving him back, seething at him as she accused him of using her to his own ends.  She said that this wasn’t a chess game and that she wasn’t a pawn on the field to be played at his whim.  Denounced him by saying he’d never loved her;  _ that _ , perhaps more than anything, is what truly hurt him.  

 

She drove him until the backs of his thighs were pressed against the desk, and when she took another swing at him with her open hand, he caught her wrist.  In a series of deft moves he probably couldn’t have as readily accomplished had he not been drunk, he swept everything off the desk carelessly and twisted her arm behind her, turning her body.  The legs of the desk screeched on the wooden floor when he pushed her down over its edge, face against pressed against the wood.  She was  _ still _ swearing at him, hurling accusations, when he kicked her feet apart and dipped a hand between her legs.  He parted the folds and found her wet.  The touch wrung a moan from her lips, and it seemed  _ that  _ was the only thing that stopped her seething.  Still holding her by the arm he’d bent against her back, he traced the interior of her lower lips with a pair of fingers, then reached further to set them against her clit.  Precise flicks over the bundle of nerves set her to squirming, and he took the opportunity to crane down and set his teeth into the fleshy curve where her hip met her buttock.  She had squealed shrilly and cursed him.  

 

The bite set her on an all new tirade of drunken threats and taunts, so when she next challenged him, he gave her exactly what she asked for.  With a hand on her hip, he found her opening and drove into her so forcefully that it lifted her onto her toes.  The moan that fell from her lips and the slap of his body pounding into her were obscene, and in between breaths, he  _ dared _ her to tell him how much she enjoyed it.  And, she did.  More than once.  By the time he came, he was gripping both of her shoulders, and she was clinging to the desk, still braced up to barely perch on her tip-toes.  The intensity of his climax was such that he was still rigid after he’d spent inside her, and he gave several more long, deep thrusts as his seed trickled down the inside of her leg.  --  The mental images sent a tremor through him from head to toe, and he wasn’t surprised to find himself half-hard when he started shaking his head to banish the memories.

 

It took effort and more than a few moments to settle himself into a decent state, and once that was accomplished, he approached the door she'd pushed to and eased it open.  She was facing the far wall and did not stir when the door creaked upon opening.  Half of her back was naked to him, and the severity of the wounds he found there opened a pit in his stomach into which his heart promptly fell.  The back of one shoulder was scraped raw, and light abrasions spanned the rest, laid over bruises in the hues of angry thunderheads outlined in red.  The line of his brow dropped to hood his eyes, and he drew up to the opposite end of the tub, bracing both hands on the lip.  “Niyera,” he started, and she turned her head to rest her cheek against her arms; her eyes were open, but she didn't look at him, and she was only barely able to see him in her peripheral vision.  The despondence in her gaze raised a painful lump in his throat, and he was hoarse when he spoke again.  “Please, let me heal you,” he beseeched, and she sat a little higher to be able to rest her gaze fully on him.  

 

The bright embers he normally found in her blue-green eyes were dulled by weariness and burdened with something that distinctly resembled regret.  After considering him in silence for a long while, she nodded, but said, “You can heal anything from the shoulders up.  The rest of it...I want to keep.”  Disapproval creased his lips as he sidled up to crouch next to her, and his voice was tense, “Why?  What purpose would that serve?”  Her eyes hung on his as his fingers trailed over the skin of her neck, bruises fading beneath the hands that created them.  “This pain is easier to bear.  It makes the other...quieter,” she offered, and her words gave him pause, fingers lingering on her collarbone longer than necessary.  If the dejected look in her eyes had been the knife that pierced him, her last words were the hand that twisted it.  His failing in allowing himself to love her was never more clear or poignant to him than at this very moment.  

 

He took a cleansing breath as he set his hands at her temples, smoothed his thumbs across her brow, and reached with his healing to chase away the headache he could see in her eyes.  When it faded, she visibly shrank as if the tension that held her upright evaporated.  Remorse drew his lips taut as his hands traveled downward, settling on her shoulders, and he observed the retreat of the scrapes and bruises there.  The discolorations disappeared, along with the teeth marks, and at last, every bit of skin he could see above the water’s surface was healed.  “Thank you,” she murmured as her eyes fled from his, and she sank into the water.   He leaned against the tub, arms folded on the lip, as he watched her.   “This can't happen again, Solas,” she said, barely above a whisper.  She was gazing at the water when she spoke, hair spreading in a wide fan around her shoulders.  “I  _ can't _ ,” she breathed, and it was a confession as well as a plea.  Having his own words turned back on him made his teeth grit, and he averted his gaze to the floor.   Of course, she was right.  She'd been right since before they left the tavern. 

When she spoke, the volume of her voice was closer to normal, and she lifted her eyes to him.  “And, you can't,” she paused, breath catching in her chest before she continued, “You can't act as if we’re still...not after what you said, what happened.  I'm no longer  _ yours _ to be possessive of.”  He countered with a soft  _ I know _ , then finally forced his eyes back up to hers.  The expression on her face, in her eyes, the entirety of her body language clawed at him from the inside.   “It was never my intention to use you.  I would never,” he stopped short and took a breath to steady himself, “I did...I  _ do _ love you, vhenan.”  She recoiled to the far side of the tub at his words, unable to look at him, though he could see the faint sheen of tears in her eyes.

 

“Don't say that.  Just... _ don't _ ,” she exhaled a trembling sigh and shook her head.  He could only nod in response, having no words to further explain or to use to justify himself.  There was nothing left to say, no  _ sorry _ could ever be enough, so he said nothing as he rose to leave.  He only paused in the doorway, but she refused to meet his gaze.  He nodded, almost as if to himself and collected his clothes.  If staying away was the only thing he could do to ease this transition for her, it is what he would do.  He would do his best to help her forget he existed.  Once dressed, he took his time departing from her chamber, like a child that drags his feet when confronted with bedtime.  But when he went, each door shut behind him with a soft click, and he eventually found himself standing in the great hall.  It was empty but for the chill of the night and the flickering of torches.   --   As soon he stepped out of view and she heard the inner chamber door click, her face fell into her hands, and she wept. 

  
  
  



End file.
